Clinging to Broken Glass
by starry19
Summary: Season Four story, set immediately post Fugue in Red. "Then, suddenly, he realized she was his warm place, somewhere to seek shelter and comfort. It never crossed his mind that she would push him away." Rated T/M
1. Chapter 1

**AN**: This is just a little pet project of mine. Originally, I wasn't even going to post it. Before we start, YES I KNOW this didn't happen. Based on….many various things (Jimmy effing Gadd, mainly), I am well aware they haven't ever been together. At this point in S5, I don't even _want_ this story to have happened.

But let's pretend for a while, shall we? I'm taking some creative license here.

There is angst ahead. Because they are both broken people. And this story is messy and not polished AT ALL. Four or five chapters in total, I think.

Set immediately post Fugue in Red. This first part is sort of on the M side.

**Clinging to Broken Glass**

**Chapter One**

He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, gripping the frame as though it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

There was something pounding through his blood, some nameless grief, crushing in its intensity, rising up to strangle him.

And then he _knew_.

With herculean effort, he pushed the black wall of anguish down and turned.

Lisbon was at the top of the stairs, looking both bitterly sorry and determined. In the darkness of the hall, her white skin stood out like moonlight.

He frowned. Something wasn't right. Something was scratching at the back of his mind, something important.

"Lisbon," he said, and her expression relaxed a shade. "Why are we here?" He had no idea. The last thing he could recall was… was going into the woods, looking for the murder weapon. No, that wasn't right…something else had happened after that…

She took a small step towards him. "You don't know?" she asked, and the tone of her voice told her a great deal had happened during his apparent memory lapse.

"No," he said slowly, straining his mind. "Did I take a blow to the head or something?"

Her eyes fluttered shut, and he saw her swallow. "Not exactly."

This time, he was the one that took a step towards her. "Tell me," he murmured, but then looked around. "Not here, though." For unexplainable reasons, he didn't want Lisbon here. This part of his life, he kept close to his heart. Lisbon knew more about it than anyone, but he wasn't ready to deal with her seeing what he'd lost in such a personal manner.

He touched her shoulder as he walked by, urging her to follow him down the stairs. The dust in the house suddenly seemed oppressive, as did the darkness and the demons that lurked in the corners, taunting him.

As he pushed the sliding doors in the kitchen open, he noticed his hands were shaking.

The night air in Malibu was cool, bracing. He waited for Lisbon to step onto the deck before shutting the door behind them. They were still too close to his memories, though, so he headed down the wooden stairs that led to the beach, Lisbon following silently.

He stopped a few feet in front of the darkly crashing waves, letting the ocean breeze whip through his hair, clearing his mind. He felt strange, so very strange, like he was on the edge of a cliff.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisbon stand beside him, her eyes on the distant, almost imperceptible horizon. "You almost died," she whispered, words barely audible over the ocean's steady thrum.

The anguish was evident in her tone. Carefully, he reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were thin, soft, and very cold. Her grip was tight, however. "The murderer was hiding in the woods," she went on. "He attacked, dragged you into the pond. Held you underwater."

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"You weren't breathing when I found you." There was a sharp pause, and he knew she was reliving her terror. "The paramedics brought you back, but when you woke up, you didn't know who you were."

He took a moment to work through what she'd said. "Like temporary amnesia?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sort of. The doctor called it a fugue. All of your emotional memories were gone, and you reverted back into a conman."

Unexpectedly, his lips turned up. "A conman? Sham investments conman or fake psychic conman?"

Despite herself, she smiled at his tone. "Oh, fake psychic, of course. You asked me if we were sleeping together, and proceeded to do a cold reading on me."

His jaw dropped for a moment. "I asked you_ what_?"

Her grin widened at his evident horror. "You said you couldn't imagine why else a cop would be at your beside, unless we were sleeping together."

If he would have had both of his hands free, he would have cradled his head in them. As it was, he blinked rapidly, wondering what the hell else had happened.

"Why can't I remember any of it?" he asked.

She sighed. "The doctor said it's typical for someone in a fugue state not to remember what they did. Sometimes the memories come back, but more often they don't."

He turned towards her fully. "So why am I here? In Malibu, I mean."

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I didn't know how else to bring you back."

Not understanding what she meant, he shook his head, and she took a deep breath.

"You were starting to get your memories back," she said. "But you were fighting against it. You knew there were things you didn't want to remember, and you were trying to avoid them."

Slowly, it was starting to make sense.

"You decided to leave the CBI," she continued. "I couldn't make you stay, obviously, but then I realized what I was about to unleash on the world." She gestured helplessly at the silent house above them. "This was my last resort."

"Well," he said, distantly, "it worked."

There was a pain in his chest, something gnawing. He'd forgotten his life. Well, apparently not_ all_ of his life, just the redeeming bits. Angela and Charlotte. His work at the CBI. Lisbon. And, going by what he'd just heard, he had tried very hard to_ not_ remember.

All things considered, though, it was difficult to blame his mind for trying to protect itself.

Still, he felt almost fragile. What sort of man was he, that he could forget the most important things that had ever been in his life?

"Thank you," he told Lisbon, almost faintly. "I'm glad you didn't just let me wander off."

She read his expression for a moment, then squeezed his hand lightly. "Let's go home," she said. "It's a long drive. And don't even try to tell me you're staying here because you're not."

Her tone was laced with iron, and he took another moment to appreciate her. She was the one person he had left that truly cared about what happened to him, that sometimes lost sleep over him, that he could tell anything to without fear of losing her loyalty.

And he'd forgotten her.

And his wife.

And his daughter.

It felt like his soul was threatening to crumble.

"Alright," he said. "Let's go."

This time, she was the one that led him around to the front of the house. They were an emotionally messed up pair, the two of them. He knew the past few days had been harder on her than they had on him, but tonight, now, he was balancing on the precipice.

"Damn," she said, almost at her vehicle. "I need to lock your house."

She took off for the front door as he leaned against the driver's side door. How did she have his keys, anyway?

He followed her progress with his eyes. There really was no point in locking the place – there was nothing there worth stealing. Just his memories.

They were all he had left, and he'd lost them.

He was so_ cold_ now, literally cold, and exhausted. All he wanted was some place warm to rest. Some place where he wouldn't feel like an absolute failure of a man for what had happened.

Lisbon turned back towards him, expression relieved that they were going to be on their way. He knew she hated it when he was here.

Then, suddenly, he realized she was his warm place, somewhere to seek shelter and comfort. It never crossed his mind that she would push him away.

He waited until she was directly in front of him, waiting for him to move, and then he slid his arms around her.

She didn't resist his embrace; instead, she slipped her arms beneath his jacket and locked her fingers against the small of his back. He realized this was the hug she should have been able to give him after he had woken up in the hospital.

He could feel the tension in her petite frame, the barely controlled emotion. It mirrored his own.

The woman had just spent the last God-knows-how-long dealing with him behaving probably appallingly badly. The way he was before Angela. His showman personality. This was _after_ she had seen him nearly dead.

He'd been able to offer her no comfort then. Strange thought – that she should need reassurance when he was the one who had stopped breathing. But there was no question that Lisbon cared more about his life than he himself did. It meant something to her.

She sighed very softly, turning her face into his neck. He could feel her breath against his skin, her lips just a whisper away from his rapidly thundering pulse.

Without thinking, just feeling, he lowered his head and captured her mouth. The force of her reaction surprised him. After the first, sweet seconds, she flung her arms around his neck, fingers weaving into his hair.

Almost roughly, he pushed her against the vehicle, hands on her hips, demanding she part her lips. She gave him whatever he wanted, body flush against his.

He could feel the heat from her skin starting to seep into his numb limbs. But he needed to get closer, needed more.

He had been so alone, so very alone, for so long.

Sliding one hand around her waist, he reached behind her and fumbled for the door handle. There was no time to question if he was being presumptuous; as soon as the space was opened up at her back, Lisbon was pulling him forward.

When the door shut, he took a stupid moment to wonder if this was the right thing to do. But then, she was on top of him, undoing buttons until her hands were sliding over the planes of his chest. He could have no more pushed her away in that moment than he could have stopped his heart beating.

Small, nimble hands unfastened his belt, lowered his zipper.

Eyes closed, he groaned as she reached for him, fingers wrapping around his length. She seemed very intent on her exploration, and he allowed her perhaps a minute of unrestricted access. Any more than that, and he knew he would start to come apart in her hands.

With difficulty, he reversed their positions, trembling hands pulling buttons through holes, fingers skimming over her newly exposed skin. If this was a movie, she would have had on a convenient front-closure bra, but this was real life, and there was an awkward, clumsy moment as he reached beneath her.

But then, he stopped caring. She was bared to him, all white skin and soft breasts, tipped with dusky pink. He dragged his lips down to one, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

At the same time, he found her belt, hurriedly undoing it. This part was going to be more difficult, but he managed to slide the rest of her clothing off.

Desperate now, he took her face in one hand. This was the last chance she was going to have to walk away from this. He searched her eyes for hesitation, but all he found was need. This was an affirmation for her, he suddenly thought, a reassurance that he was still alive. She had been denied him, the real him, for days now, and she wasn't backing out.

He had thought about this moment many times over the years, the first time they would be together. It always involved a bed and usually candles and never once were they in Malibu, wedged into the backseat of an SUV. He had dreamed of teasing her until she cried out, and then doing it again, of being able to leisurely explore her.

Instead, the only foreplay he was able to offer her was a few gentle slides of his hand between her thighs, mouth still at her breast. He was gratified when his name fell from her lips all the same. His body cried out for release, and he knew that need, this time, was going to trump romance.

He flicked his thumb across her, once, twice, again.

"Patrick," she breathed, and he gave in.

Removing his hand, he kissed her again, shifting carefully. With one forceful thrust, he buried himself in her, overwhelmed by the pleasure he found there.

This was not an occasion for prolonging the inevitable.

God, he needed her. He was very nearly rough with her, but her quiet moans and nails raking down his back told him that this was exactly what she wanted. It was desperate and intense and overwhelming. The first time in nine years, the first time since Angela.

He wanted to weep. He wanted this to never end. He wanted to laugh crazily.

She met him thrust for thrust, and he felt drunk, stupid with pleasure.

Her muscles tightened around him. "Open your eyes," he whispered.

Her lashes parted, and her eyes were bright, hot. In another few seconds, they glossed, her mouth opening in ecstasy. Still, she held his gaze as she convulsed, and she said his name again.

It sent him over the edge, and he bowed his head onto her bare shoulder, teeth grazing her skin lightly.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, his ear pressed against her heart. One of her arms was wrapped around his shoulders, her other hand stroking his hair.

Now that the need had subsided, he became slowly aware of their surroundings.

Dear God. He had just made love to Teresa Lisbon for the very first time in the backseat of a not particularly large SUV that was parked in the driveway of the house where his wife and daughter were murdered.

There were so many things wrong with the situation that it was almost comical.

He pushed himself up to peer into her face. Her expression was open, soft, but slightly wary, as though she wasn't sure of what to expect from him.

That was fair enough – he wasn't sure what to expect of himself, either.

He brushed his thumb over her slightly swollen lips.

"Are you alright?" he murmured.

She smiled a little. "That's an interesting question to ask at a time like this."

He couldn't help it – he grinned back. "I suppose you have a point." He took a breath. "Actually, I have no idea what to say right now."

"Me neither," she admitted, and he noticed the goosebumps rising on her arms.

They both needed to get dressed. It was a shame no one had thought to start the vehicle before they climbed in the back.

Now_ that_ was a stupid thought if he'd ever had one.

His mind wasn't working right at all. Perhaps he was in a little bit of shock.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "Do you regret it?" he asked softly, seriously.

Almost instantly, she shook her head. "No." She swallowed. "Do you?"

"No," he said, then kissed her very lightly. "And I won't, no matter what happens next."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "What_ is_ going to happen next?" she almost whispered.

"I don't know," he replied. "I don't have a clue."

She laughed, and it had a tiny, helpless edge to it. "I guess that makes two of us." There was a pause. "Let's go home."

Like teenagers, they wriggled back into their clothes. He was fighting the urge to break into laughter at the absurdity of it. In a few minutes, Lisbon had climbed into the front seat, ramming the keys into the ignition.

They were silent for a few miles. What sort of topic of conversation could he introduce?

Eventually, he reached across the center console and took her hand.

They stopped for coffee (and tea) three times on the way back. By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Sacramento, they were both tired enough to dispel the lingering awkwardness.

"Where do you want me to take you?" she asked, stopped at a red light. "CBI?"

He shrugged. "How about your apartment?" he replied. He found he no desire to be alone for what remained of the night.

"Okay," she said, nodding slowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly. He read her body language. She was surprised at his request, happy that he would be with her, but utterly unsure of how this was all going to work out.

He figured he felt pretty much the exact same way.

There wasn't much to say when they reached her place. She stumbled sleepily into the bathroom to change, and he crawled into her bed after shedding his shoes, jacket, and vest. He wondered if he was being presumptive again, but she seemed to take his presence as expected, only glancing his way before flipping the lights off.

He felt the mattress depress under her slight weight, and he reached out for her. She curled into his chest, one of her knees hooking over his legs.

She smelled like cinnamon.

Distantly, he realized he was about to sleep with someone for the first time in nine years. Literally fall asleep next to someone in an actual bed.

He felt like it was a moment he should do something to memorialize.

Titling her chin up, he kissed her warmly. He had no idea what she made of what had happened earlier in the night, but he knew he didn't want her thinking that this didn't mean anything to him.

"Good night," he whispered.

She smiled. "Good night," she breathed back, resettling herself.

He closed his eyes, and, surprisingly, drifted off almost immediately.

That was the first night of what would become their unofficial relationship.

**XxXxXxXxXxX**

**AN: Please please please let me know what you thought about chapter one! I don't think I've ever been less sure of a story I've posted, and, quite honestly, I need some validation. Don't make me cry!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: **I LOVE YOU GUYS! Seriously! A big, virtual hug to my "peeps," the poor souls who faithfully review whatever crap I've posted – you guys know who you are. My New Year's Resolution is to actually start responding to individual reviews, because I suck now, and I want to make sure you guys all know how happy you make me!

Okay, this is going to follow Season 4. The idea I had was to write this in such a way that it could actually fit in the show. Fair warning…as we know, the shippers out there didn't get a happy ending in said season.

OH, and this chapter reminded me of something: at some point in Season 5, we _are_ coming back to Jane's "love you." Do you know why I'm so certain of this? They included it in the "Previously on The Mentalist" at the beginning of The Crimson Ticket.

**Clinging to Broken Glass**

**Chapter Two**

If they were hard pressed, they would say that it was about comfort, about warding off loneliness. That no, they weren't really together.

But he stayed at her apartment a few times a week, and after a while, his toothbrush found its own spot in her bathroom, as did his razor. He even developed a routine for when he was at her place – his keys went on the desk, suit jacket got hung on the back of the chair in her room, cell phone got plugged into the outlet next to his side of the bed with the charger that he'd gotten specifically for that purpose.

Once or twice, she stayed in his hotel room, but neither of them liked that nearly as well. Lisbon's place was home base, somewhere that they were both comfortable in. It was meant to be an actual home, and he started feeling himself getting downright possessive of it.

Despite how both of them felt, no one had tried to erase any of the emotional lines between them.

It wasn't just sex, though. Far from it. As much as he enjoyed making love to her (and he enjoyed it very, very much), there was something intrinsically perfect about simply going to bed at the same time and having her fall asleep on his chest.

But he had never told her how he felt.

It was…safer…that way.

Especially now, since he had caused Red John to resurface with a vengeance. He hated it, but as far as he saw it, there were no other options. What was he supposed to do? Kill Panzer? Ask Lisbon to do it?

Still.

He laid awake the night Darcy had come back with her questions, Lisbon's dark hair trailing across his chest, one of his hands stroking her bare back. There would be consequences for this, he knew. But he would deal with them.

Lisbon had yelled at him in the attic the next day. Her anger was justified, but he never enjoyed it when her ire was directed at him. The benefit of being with her, even in an abstract way, was that he could pull her back as she stormed away, and kiss her until she melted against him.

Before, he would have just had to let her go and bring her gourmet coffee until she was speaking to him again.

However, now it was impossible for her to hide her worry for him. He could literally feel her concern in her embrace. The anger was just how she was used to displaying her emotions.

"It'll be alright," he whispered, lips brushing hers as he spoke.

Her fingers were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "You can't promise that."

There was no argument he could make, so instead, he planted a soft kiss under her jaw before hauling her further against him. No, he couldn't promise her that. The only assurance he could offer was that if Red John wanted him dead, he would probably be dead.

When she left, she was more sad than angry.

Erica Flynn had been another strange moment in their relationship. When he looked back, even now, he was ashamed of himself.

He supposed he could use the excuse that he was only a man, and she was a beautiful woman who had made a long and brilliant career of seducing men.

Lisbon had been so angry the entire case. Her jealously was almost touching. She absolutely didn't want Erica around him.

Once or twice during the few days Erica had been assisting them, Lisbon had grabbed his lapels and roughly kissed him when they'd been alone. Though she'd never said it outright, _would_ never say it outright, he knew she was reminding him who he belonged to.

Apparently, she should have done it more.

His guilt was a palpable thing, as much as he tried to disguise it. After Erica had called him, he'd sat at the desk in the attic for a long time, thinking.

His phone vibrated. He checked the number quickly, flipping it open. "Hey, Lisbon," he said neutrally.

"Hey," she replied, and he could hear her clattering around her kitchen. Her kitchen that was currently stocked with eggs and tea. "It's late. Are you coming over?"

There was a moment of hesitation. He certainly didn't deserve to be in her bed tonight. "I don't think so," he said. "I have some stuff I'm working on here."

"Fine," she said casually, but he could hear the disappointment. "See you in the morning." She would never ask him to stay, he knew that. It would break their unwritten rules. They weren't really in a relationship, she didn't really have the right to make demands of him.

Of course, that was utter nonsense.

He sat in the attic for a few hours, the rain making the whole place cold. He didn't want to be there. It didn't matter if it was right to stay away.

A half hour later, he was unlocking her front door with the key she'd given him. The apartment was dark, silent.

He padded up the stairs, drawn to her.

She was surprised when he took her into his arms, but murmured her sleepy approval, fingers pressed against his chest.

"Thought you were staying at work," she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. "I wanted to be here more."

Contentedly, she sighed, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"I did something very stupid," he said, before he could think about it too much.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "And I was so relaxed." She pulled away from far enough to see his face. "How stupid are we talking?"

"Monumentally," he admitted. It certainly felt that way.

She looked as though she was going through a mental checklist. "Is anyone going to press charges?" she asked. "How much paperwork, exactly, did you create for me?"

Regardless of the fact that the situation was_ not funny_, he smiled. "No one is pressing charges, and there will be no necessary paperwork. In fact, if anyone found out about it, no one would think it was a big deal."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "So why is it? A big deal, I mean."

Suddenly, he found he didn't want to tell her. Didn't want to hurt her that way, since he was going to wind up hurting her every other way.

Abruptly, he pressed his lips against hers forcefully. "Never mind," he whispered, in between urgent kisses.

He rolled them, ending on top of her, hands sliding her jersey off.

Her fingers tangled in his hair as he kissed her collarbone, her stomach, lower.

He gave her as much pleasure as he could, shedding his clothes as she came down from her release. Her arms wrapped around him, welcoming him closer, and he was ashamed of himself all over.

But his need for her softness overrode everything else.

They lay in a tangle of limbs later, his face buried in her breasts. She hadn't forgotten what he'd said, he knew that, but she was going to let him get away with not telling her.

The next few weeks were relatively calm, at least by their standards. They caught several killers, didn't fight that much, and once he took her to a restaurant that required reservations.

When he met Greg,_ the fiancé_, he had nearly died of shock. He had difficulty picturing Lisbon ever being idealistic enough to get engaged at twenty-two. Of course, he had been married when he was that age, so what the hell did he know anyway?

But here was a goldmine of information about the woman Lisbon had been in Chicago. Greg proved to be unhelpful, however, being a murder suspect and cuckolded husband. But that didn't mean he got no useful information from the man.

He learned that Greg was still not over Lisbon, but that he was definitely devoted to his wife. So. Lisbon had wanted someone steadfast, someone who had the capability of being loyal regardless of the circumstances. Someone, truthfully, like herself.

He wondered what she was doing with him. Of course, he was still wearing his wedding ring, almost a decade after losing his wife. He supposed he checked that box.

After they had closed that particular case, he'd taken her for a walk on the beach, their hands loosely twined. He realized that he had started to refer to her, at least in his head, as his girlfriend. The word didn't have enough meaning to suit his purposes, but then again,_ lover_ made what they had sound cheap and trite. It was definitely neither.

One of these days, he needed to ask her how she felt about him. Oh, he knew, or at least he thought he did, but he wanted to hear the words.

But that would lead to more consequences. She had enough of a target on her back already without his adding neon lights to it. Hell, he was already scared that Red John knew what Lisbon meant to him.

She shoved him lightly then, just enough to push him into the edge of the water, and he pushed his dark thoughts away. He convinced her to let him make love to her on the beach, and despite her complaints about _where_ she now had sand, it had been a rather perfect ending to the day.

Later, he felt he should have known that something terrible was going to happen.

When he found the note on his car, it was as though the past several months had never been. There was no peace, no comfort to be found anywhere. He looked everywhere for it – the bottom of several bottles, Lisbon's open arms.

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to give up. He needed to give Red John what he wanted. And then, _maybe._

So he had carefully staged his next moves, regretting bitterly that he was going to ruin whatever he had with Lisbon. When it was over, he didn't know if she would take him back. He wouldn't deserve it, that much was certain.

The night he walked out of the CBI, he'd needed to take a few seconds in the elevator to press his face against the cool metal interior. Lisbon's heart had been in her eyes as she'd tried to talk him off the ledge she thought he was standing on.

He wished he had some comfort to give her. Wished he could have kissed her goodbye, told her not to worry. But she was a terrible liar, and even if she'd never say anything to anyone, whoever Red John relied on for information about the CBI would know there was something not-quite-genuine about her reaction.

The first several days in Vegas were a nightmarish blur. He was drunk, thoroughly drunk, almost constantly. His phone rang at least a dozen times a day. Perversely, he listened to the messages, anything to hear her voice.

It felt like his heart had fractured.

He missed her. Terribly. Awfully.

It consumed him.

He had thought he was used to missing the woman he loved; he had missed Angela for almost a decade. But that was different. That was a permanent sort of gone.

Lisbon was a matter of hours away. He could go to her, lose himself in her again.

Except that he couldn't.

Time started to be meaningless. His phone still rang, but less frequently. The best thing for her to do would be to let him go. Selfishly, he was glad she wouldn't. He needed something to hold onto.

He had begun to entertain some outlandish fantasies about her, impossible situations where she would show up in his room or he where he would look up from a black jack game and find her standing there.

And everything would be alright. She would forgive him, because that's what Teresa Lisbon did. Teresa, who would hold him while he slept and would always be his guardian angel. He could turn his face into the crook of her neck and revel in the feeling of her hands moving in slow patterns across his back.

But she was never there, and he slept with his arms around a pillow instead of her warm body.

Lorelei had been one of the hardest obstacles to overcome in this game. But it was a final test – how far had he fallen? Was he willing to sleep with an almost random stranger? At least it was confirmation that Red John hadn't known about his relationship with Lisbon. That was comforting.

The whole situation was so contrived he was shocked Lorelei didn't see straight through it. But he was a good actor. He always had been. And he had a fantastic imagination.

For a little while, he had been able to simply exist, his mind simply giving over to the physical responses his body was producing. He would be lying if he said that it didn't feel a little nice to have someone close to him, at least physically. It took the proverbial edge off, if only just, and if only for an instant.

When it was over, however, and Lorelei was practically purring against his chest, he'd had to fight tears. Looking back, he supposed that added to the role he was playing. But he wasn't upset because of Angela, because of what a one-night stand would have meant to the memory of his wife. There was only one person he wanted in this bed with him.

So when she had dropped what she thought was her bombshell the next morning, he had almost wept in relief. It was almost over. They were coming to the crux of it.

An hour later, he was in his car, flying down the road to Sacramento, back home.

Following Lisbon was something he hadn't really done before. Still, it wasn't hard to find her. He was startled when he caught his first glimpse of the woman – she was thinner than she had been, face drawn, like she hadn't been eating or sleeping well for months.

For six months, he was willing to bet, and fresh guilt assailed him. He knew, had known from the first moment he kissed her, that he was only going to bring her pain.

When she went into the church later, he almost laughed at the irony. Saint Teresa, off to pray for the well-being of a man that currently practically stalking her. And who definitely was thinking some un-saintly things.

He crawled up the center aisle, hoping that no one was going to look at him. He had no desire to feel the wrath of a nun. Apparently, they all carried around rulers in their habits to rap on knuckles.

He let her pray for a moment, pleased to be close enough to touch her again. Not that she was going to allow anything like that. He was abruptly giddy; she was literally within his arm's reach. After six months of absence, they were finally in the same room again.

"This is God," he said suddenly, hoping humor would diffuse the situation. "What is it now?"

She turned in an instant, and her expression, so close to him, made him laugh with genuine amusement for the first time in months.

Once or twice in the course of their conversation, he thought she was tempted to hit him.

"You son of a bitch," she whispered, eyes staring straight ahead. "You son of a bitch."

"Hey," he said, "we _are_ in a church." Not that he cared about such things, but he suspected that if she started ranting about him, she would never stop.

After he'd extracted her promise to help, he left again, fighting the urge to at least kiss her chastely on the cheek. The scent of her perfume lingered around him.

She was extraordinary, his Teresa.

A few days later, he walked into her office, and wrapped her in a hug, hoping she wouldn't pull away. She didn't, and he could feel through her embrace how much she'd missed him. The Kevlar was an added layer between them, and he hated it. He wanted, very much, to hold her properly, to feel the tension drain out of her, to smile when she snuggled into his chest.

But they had no time for that. The panic was almost choking him as it was. So many things had the potential to go horribly wrong, and he would have nothing to show for his six months of exile in Hell.

He was a terrible person for putting her through this, and if she refused to speak to him ever again, he would understand. It would kill him, but he would deserve it.

"Good luck, Teresa," he whispered.

He took a few steps back, her gun held inexpertly in his hand. "Love you."


	3. Chapter 3

**AN:** I _did_ warn you that this was angsty, yes? Because this is angsty. It's supposed to be. And if it feels a little rushed, it's because I originally wrote this all as a one-shot. A very, very long one-shot.

Thanks for the reviews, guys. I've said this before, but my New Year's resolution is to start replying to individual reviews, so get an account so I can message you!

Happy New Year, and let's all collectively cross our fingers that we get a Jane/Lisbon kiss SOON!

**Clinging to Broken Glass**

**Chapter Three**

This was insane. She was the stupidest person in the entire world for allowing this. They were going to get caught.

Her thoughts rambled chaotically through her head as she laid lifelessly across Jane's shoulder. He was flat out running down the stairs, breathing erratic, hands gripping her tightly.

The Citroen was parked close to the door, but in a camera's blind spot. Carefully, though still quickly, he lowered her into the trunk.

His eyes were wide, frantic. He looked almost on the verge of tears. For just a second, he touched her face, then she was engulfed in darkness.

As he drove, she tried to catch her breath. Kevlar stopped the bullets, but that didn't mean for a second she wasn't in worlds of pain. Adrenaline was pounding through her system, and her fingers were shaking too badly to unhook the vest.

Giving up, she hugged her arms around herself. She was too cold and too hot at the same time. How the hell were they going to get out of the city, let alone all the way to Vegas?

She closed her eyes and wondered how her choices had brought her to this point.

Six months ago, life had seemed almost perfect. Almost.

She had been in some sort of strange relationship with the man she had been in love with for years, their case closure rate remained the best in the bureau, and she'd been making an effort to reconnect with her brothers.

But it was Jane, really, who was responsible for her general sense of well-being.

There were times when it seemed like they were a real couple, with a real future.

He made breakfast shirtless, lounged in the doorway of the bathroom while she got ready in the morning, left various possessions in her apartment.

She got the distinct sense that he liked being there. For almost nine years, he had basically lived like a homeless person, not really having anywhere to properly go. It wasn't like she was a particularly homey person, either. But her place did have personal touches, did reflect who she was at least a little, and maybe Jane found that comforting.

As the months they were together passed, Jane had spent more and more time with her. Once, he even stayed there every night for a week.

She'd loved it.

Rationally, she knew they were a long way from moving forward together. Some nights, after he had drifted off, she'd absently toyed with his wedding ring.

Angela hung between them, or so it seemed.

Then again, maybe it wasn't Angela.

She had realized that Jane moving on was tied inextricably to Red John's demise. Without that catalyst, he was stuck. Even though she was fairly certain he loved her, at least a little, she knew that he was still married in his heart.

In some of her darker moments, she wondered if even Red John's death would be enough to propel him forward, or if she would always be relegated to a role that felt suspiciously like a mistress.

She wouldn't change it, though, if this was the only way she could have him. What she felt for him had a desperate sort of intensity that had a way of overriding rational thoughts. Some days, she wanted to kick herself for the overwhelming devotion she had to him, but it wouldn't have done any good.

Sighing, she tried to shift in the small space she was currently confined to, but it just made her more uncomfortable. Why couldn't the man drive a Lincoln? Something with an enormous amount of room for cargo would be excellent about now. Hopefully, this damn tin can of Jane's would make it to Vegas in the first place. It would be just their luck to break down in the middle of the desert.

After what seemed like a small eternity, the car stopped, and Jane popped the trunk.

He held out his hands, and she winced as he pulled her out. She was trembling so hard that standing was difficult.

Quickly, Jane pulled the vest off of her, and she gulped in a deep breath of night air. It hurt.

"Remind me to tell you that you're on your own the next time," she whispered, and he smiled.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "But we need to keep moving." His eyes were still wide and a little crazy. Not for the first time, she wondered if his breakdown was entirely faked. If she were the betting sort, she would guess that at times, it had been very real.

He helped her to the front seat, then draped his suit jacket over her. She sank gratefully into the worn upholstery, still shaking uncontrollably. Under normal circumstances, she would be in the hospital after being shot through a vest, at least for observation.

As they drove, she felt his eyes on her frequently, making sure she hadn't gone into shock. He turned the heat on full blast, angling the vents in her direction. She tugged his jacket tighter around her, breathing in the trace of his cologne that lingered in the fabric.

More hours passed. He stopped several times for gas and came back with coffee for her from each place. She didn't need the caffeine, but the familiar scent of the beverage made her feel like the world was still someplace she recognized. Besides, it was warm.

Through it all, she knew she was in the only place she really wanted to be- next to Patrick Jane, even with all the insanity that came with him.

It was a supremely stupid thought, but she shrugged it off. Too late for recriminations now.

She was in serious pain when they reached the outskirts of Vegas. Without checking, she knew that there would be three huge welts on her abdomen, welts that would darken to purple and blue within a few more hours.

He pulled into the parking lot of a seedy looking hotel. She peered up at the sign.

"God, is this where you've been staying?" she asked in mild horror.

He chuckled darkly. "No. Red John knows where I was. I found I didn't want to stay there anymore." There was more to that statement, some other reason, but he didn't elaborate and she didn't ask.

Slowly, he led her up the iron steps, one arm around her waist.

And she would not think about how wonderful it felt. He had left her, had betrayed her, had shown very clearly that she didn't mean anything to him.

Except that he'd told her he loved her.

But since this was Jane, it could mean any number of things.

The most obvious being, of course, that _he loved her_. Forcefully, she shoved that thought away. This was definitely not the time to go down that road.

The hotel room was rundown, shabby, but she tried to block that from her mind as she lowered her exhausted, bruised body onto the lumpy bed and flung an arm over her eyes.

Jane sat next to her. Without looking, she still knew he was peering down at her.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Like I just took three rounds to the chest with a sledgehammer," she replied.

There was something tender in his voice when he spoke again. "Let me see."

She was too tired to argue with him when his fingers slipped the buttons from their plackets. Lightly, he touched the welts on her skin, so lightly she almost didn't feel it.

She did, however, notice when his lips replaced his fingers. And as angry and hurt as she was, there was no way to stop her body's reaction.

No way to deny him when his lips drifted upwards and caught hers.

And no way to prevent what happened next.

She held him to her with a fiercely tight grip. Six months was a long time to wonder if he was dead, if the next phone call she got was going to be someone asking her to identify his body.

And now he was here, he was real, the pain she was feeling making the pleasure of his touch more intense.

When they were skin to skin again, she groaned outright. She had missed him so very, very much.

She wrapped her hand around him, loving the way he still trembled. It was empowering, having this effect on Patrick Jane. He was the epitome of elegance and charm, and she could make him come apart in her hands. In fact, she had done so several times just to prove that she could.

"I missed you every day," he murmured hotly. "Every single day."

"I don't believe you," she whispered, guiding him to her entrance. And she didn't. But it didn't matter.

He pushed forward, and she wrapped her legs around him.

"God, Teresa." His voice in her ear was strained.

The passion, the pleasure and the pain, both physical and emotional were a heady combination. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All she could do was cling to him.

After the months of not knowing, of the endless nights, the anger... it all faded away, at least in that moment.

It would be back, she knew, but she couldn't think about that now.

Heat filled her, and after being cold for so long, it was scorching.

His thrusts were deep, forceful, possessive. She focused on his face, his too long hair falling forward, the half-healed black eye.

But it was still Jane. And she still loved him beyond all reason.

He kissed her again, and she flew over the edge, holding him blindly. Distantly, she knew he had followed her.

Their mingled breaths were still harsh as he lay on top of her, head against her heart. She had learned that he stayed that way when he wanted comfort. Their first time, when he was disturbed about something, after he'd learned Red John was stalking Susan Darcy.

Like she'd always done, she wrapped her arms around him, one hand tangling in his hair, and he curled closer.

He was a terrifically emotional man, when he wasn't busy being overly complicated and cold. His lips pressed a soft kiss over her heart.

She started to doze, listening to Jane's breathing mixing with the distant noises of traffic from outside. There were things they should be talking about, plans to go over, but she just wanted to be for the moment. Her bruises faded from her mind. His warm weight was so comforting...

The shrill ringing of her burner phone cut through her slumber with alacrity. She fumbled in the darkness until she found her discarded blazer, searched quickly through the pockets.

"Yeah?" she said stupidly into the receiver.

It was Van Pelt, who was apparently leading their little consisting of her, Rigsby, and Cho into town. She handed the phone to Jane, who talked them through their last set of directions.

While he was speaking, she gathered the rest of her clothes and retreated to the small, dingy bathroom. The team would be there soon, and there was no way in hell she was letting them find her like this.

Hands still shaking, she pulled on her clothes. She ached, the welts on her chest protesting her movements.

By the time she re-entered the room proper, Jane was dressed, too, the covers tossed back up on the bed.

He held her gaze, and, like their first time, no one was sure of what to do. She was the first to look away. "Do you have any Advil?" she asked, eyes searching around the room.

"Sure," he said, digging through one of the bags he'd brought inside when they'd first arrived. She caught the pill bottle he tossed her, then grabbed the bottle of water he'd bought at their last rest stop.

She hoped the medication would kick in soon. She felt stiff, like an old woman.

"Ah, we should go soon," he told her. "The team is maybe a half hour out."

She nodded, looking around for things she might have dropped. It was silly; she'd hardly moved since she got inside, but it was still something to do.

He settled an arm around her waist as they started down the stairs.

She wondered if it was possible to slip so unobtrusively back into their old habits. Did she even want to do that? Just pick up where they'd left off?

Oh, really, did she think she was kidding herself? If that's what Jane wanted, it would take something pretty extraordinary for her to tell him no.

Her greatest weakness had always been her inability to put her foot down where he was concerned. When it came to how she felt about him, it was almost impossible to not give in to whatever demands he made.

If she looked at the situation objectively, she understood that she had become the sort of woman she usually despised. Letting a man run her life by his terms. Taking him back time after time, just because of something stupid like love.

Only she had never loved anyone like this.

It was powerful, all-consuming, and unshakable. She wasn't sure if anything in the world could change the way she felt about him in her heart of hearts.

He might make her angry, he might hurt her. But she still loved him. And always would. If she had to live with simply lingering in his life, she would do so.

She recognized the CBI vehicles parked outside the warehouse Jane indicated. There was a sense of unreality as she walked in the cavernous room, gritting her teeth against the pain in her muscles.

The others were wandering around, unpacking, and Rigsby went looking for nachos.

There was no time like the present, she supposed. "That thing you said, before you shot me." She took a deep breath. "What did you mean?"

She wasn't sure what compelled her to ask. Was she a glutton for punishment?

His expression was carefully neutral. She knew him well enough to know that he was hiding something.

"Why, what did I say?" he asked, voice giving nothing away. "I was sort of hyped up."

And that was all the answer she needed. Jane didn't forget anything, ever, let alone something like that. He didn't want to talk about it; that was clear enough. He wanted to forget it had ever happened.

It stung, but not enough that she was willing to press the issue and risk losing him again.

So she took her cue from him and brushed it all aside.

Thankfully, there was no more time to talk about it. They needed to roll.

She had never experienced such absolute terror as she had a few hours later, when Darcy put a stop to their operation. Jane was by himself with Red John. They had lost all communication with him. He had been expecting back up to come, to be able to save him.

And now they were stuck, having to justify to a very irate FBI agent why half of them weren't dead.

She suspected it was the utter pleading in her voice that had galvanized Darcy into believing her. She was almost choking on her fear.

When she saw Jane lying in the sand, she almost broke down and wept. He was alright.

But, like always, she waited for him to touch her. And he did, sliding his fingers down her arm until their hands met. She thought that it was possibly the first time he had reached for her, wanting comfort, when they were in public.

They had driven back with a police escort. She thought that if she never rode in Jane's Citroen again she would die happy. She was starting to associate it with bad things.

She tried to sleep for part of the ride, but her thoughts were swirling too chaotically. What was going to happen when they got back? She had no idea.

However, Jane was coming back with her. It would be alright in the end.

And then Lorelei Martins had dropped her bombshell and she had never wanted to have a breakdown more in that moment.

He had screwed her. For what? For fun? To convince Red John that he had really fallen so far? She decided his reasons didn't care.

This was a betrayal. And then...oh, God, and then she had jumped right back into his arms again.

Was he using her? Did he come straight from his other lover's arms to hers?

The thought was distasteful enough to make her nauseous.

Through her cloud of anger and hurt, she realized he'd switched hotel rooms so he wouldn't bring her back to the place he where he'd been with Lorelei.

That was something. Maybe. Or not. Maybe it just meant that he had some sort of standards, or a vaguely worded moral code.

She left work early that day. She couldn't help it.

Bertram and the FBI were working something out. She had no idea what it was, but she knew she was officially on suspension.

It was the first time in her life she was happy about it.

She needed an excuse to not see Lorelei, to not be forced to picture her wrapped up in hotel sheets with the man she loved.

Jane called her several times, but she ignored it.

She could not deal with him anymore today.

She fervently hoped he didn't show up here. He would try to explain, but all she wanted to do was to slap him.

And she had no desire to show him how deeply his actions had cut her.

In the bathroom, she threw his razor and toothbrush into the trash with force. She had held onto them for six months, hoping still that he would come back.

And now he certainly wasn't going to.

She laid down on her bed, on top of the covers. The place where they had spent so many nights together. She couldn't help but remember.

His stubbled jaw in the mornings, golden curls untamed. The way he would murmur sleepily to her in the middle of the night. The thrusting hips and stuttering heartbeats and pleasure so intense she thought she would die of it. The nights he would show up long after she had gone to sleep and crawl in bed beside her like it was the only place he could ever be at peace.

And then he had gone and fucked Red John's girlfriend.

Perversely, she wondered if he'd enjoyed it.

She realized she was crying, great terrible sobs that shook her whole frame.

She slept that way, fully clothed, arms wrapped around her pillow like a small child.

In the morning, she woke feeling like she had a hangover. She felt physically ill, her temples throbbing.

Thank God she didn't have to go to work.

The shower did little to dispel her aching muscles, and she spent the remainder of the day on the couch, trying very hard not to think of Jane. Sometimes, it even worked.

Her phone rang several more times, but she didn't bother picking up. He could see what it felt like for a change.

Around seven that night, Bertram called to inform her she could report back in the morning. She wasn't sure what to say. She couldn't very well ask for a few more days to wallow in sadness.

Later, when she heard the knock on her front door, she knew Jane had gotten tired of waiting her out.

She gathered her courage. She was going to have to face him sometime.

With surprisingly steady hands, she unlocked the door and let him in.

He looked much better, she noted dispassionately. His hair was tamed, his clothes were ironed, jaw free of stubble.

"Can we talk?" he asked, looking very unsure of himself.

"I don't imagine you'll go away until we do," she said, tone flat.

He followed her into the living room, taking the seat across from her. "I'm sorry," he said, almost immediately.

She felt venom seep into her words. "For what? Leaving for six months? For screwing Lorelei? Or for screwing me right after?"

He hadn't expected her harsh words. "Is that what you think happened, Teresa?" and she knew by his voice that she had scored a hit.

"It certainly looks that way from where I'm sitting, Jane." She deliberately used his last name.

"Stop being childish," he said, angry now.

"I'm not the one that ran away for six months," she spat back.

"I shouldn't have to justify what I did to you of all people." Color was rising on his cheeks.

"That's right," she said sourly. "You don't have to justify your actions to anyone. You can just come and go as you like and never worry about what you're doing to other people." The urge to smack him was becoming uncontrollable.

He sighed bitterly, scrubbing his hands down his face. "Fine, Lisbon, fine," he bit out. "You can think whatever you want. But we need to be on speaking terms before I leave."

Soft green eyes held hers, and she wondered if he was stupid enough to try and hypnotize her. "You're still the only person I trust," he breathed. "Are you still on my side?"

She let out a breath. "Unfortunately," she told him. "Yes." It was true. No matter what he had done, she was still going to be his ally.

He looked like he wanted to touch her, but wisely refrained. She would have been tempted to break his fingers. "Then we can work through everything else."

"There's nothing to work through," she said, almost as soon as the words left his mouth. "You never promised me anything, and the same is true for me. We were never in a relationship," she said firmly, hoping the steel in her voice made it true. "We slept together occasionally. We're not doing so anymore."

There was something shattering behind his eyes, but she wasn't going to be concerned with it.

"And that's the most you're going to get from me tonight," she told him. "You should go. I'll see you in the morning."

He left then, without arguing, and she was relieved and disappointed.

She locked the door behind him, breathing deeply.

She stayed like that, forehead pressed against the cool metal.

She had no way of knowing how long he did the same on the other side.

**AN: **Oh, my goodness that was depressing. Originally, that was where this ended, but I think I may attempt to give them a happy ending. Thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: ** "Happy ending" won the poll, hands down. Up until now, I've stuck to the events that happened in the show, but by necessity, we're going to wander away from them a little for this piece.

I'm not calling this fluff, but it's certainly happier.

Ha. I realized part of the way through this I was contradicting some of my episode tags. It feels very weird, like someone is going to call me out on it. I think when I write tags, they sort of become head canon for me.

**Clinging to Broken Glass**

**Chapter Four**

It had been a very long battle to win her back.

In the beginning, he hadn't fought hard for her, blinded by his obsessions.

Truly, there hadn't been much of a point when he'd first returned. She didn't want anything to do with him anyway, not that he could blame her.

There was a cold wall of professionalism around her, though her anger did manage to seep out from time to time.

In the almost nine years he had known her, he'd never seen her deal with true heartbreak. The fact that he was responsible for her current state made his heart clench.

He was lucky he had Lorelei to hide behind, something sharp to focus on. Otherwise, he would be forced to dwell on how his life had fallen apart again.

There were days when he thought he would have given fifteen years of his life to be able to sleep next to her for just a night. He wanted to smell her perfume, feel the softness of her skin under his lips. Wanted to be the warmth she unconsciously burrowed into as she dreamt.

Just one night.

But they needed time.

And he needed answers.

Predictably, but still unbelievably, Lisbon was by his side. She might have despised the very sight of him from time to time, but she was still his. It was about the most comforting thought he could offer himself.

When he woke up in the car he'd crashed into the tree, the first thing he'd seen was her face. Her heart was in her eyes, relief etched into every line.

She had wrapped her hand around the window sill of the door with so much pressure that her knuckles were white. He knew what that meant – she wanted to touch him but was stopping herself.

Despite everything, he smiled.

After his bruises had faded, he was able to breathe a little easier. The entire horrible thing was going to end soon, he was sure of it.

This, literally, was the best lead he'd ever had, and he didn't intend to waste it. He wasn't grasping at straws anymore, at least, regardless of what Lisbon thought.

It soothed his nerves, having a direction to go in, gave him the ability to relax, if just a hair.

He'd been able to turn his attention back to Lisbon, to repairing some of the damage he'd done. She was certainly fighting him off, though.

Any attempt to really flirt was met by a stoic gaze. When he'd hidden her keys in the puzzle box, he'd watched in amused horror as she smashed the small wooden container. Part of him wondered if she was fantasizing about hitting him in the kneecaps with the unexplainable hammer in her desk drawer.

Tommy Volker really became the tipping point.

He watched as Lisbon became utterly immersed in the case, basically living in the office, developing an encyclopedic knowledge of what was contained in his file.

It reminded him of himself, and he found that worrisome. Red John had destroyed his life, quite literally. But the serial killer continued to win victories every time Jane pored over a case file for days, taking another small piece of his existence.

He'd be damned if the same thing was going to happen to Lisbon.

Volker, however, was incredibly clever and well connected. It seemed they kept running into dead ends and brick walls, just when a break seemed around the corner. Even his best efforts were coming up short, and it was wretchedly frustrating.

It was worse for Lisbon, who blamed herself for Amanda Shaw's death, as silly as that thought was. Volker was a sociopath – he was the only one responsible.

Late one night, after slamming into another proverbial road block with the case, he'd been in the break room, hoping a fresh cup on tea would enable his mind to come up with another route that would lead to Tommy Volker behind bars.

The lights were on in Lisbon's office.

Unsurprising, yes, but he decided to check on her anyway. Their relationship was still horrifically strained and awkward from time to time, but he was utterly sure that he was entitled to make sure the woman he loved was alright.

As it turned out, she wasn't.

She was sitting on the couch, head cradled in her hands. Although she tried to stiffen her spine when she heard the door open, he could still see the tell-tale tremor in her shoulders.

Quickly, he sat his teacup on the table and crossed the room.

Lisbon looked exhausted, the dark shadows under her eyes prominent in the half-light of the office. He could see the remnants of tear tracks on her cheeks.

Instinctively, he dropped next to her, one arm going around her shoulders. Just like he would have, before.

To his great surprise, she leaned into him, head resting heavily against his chest.

"It'll be alright," he whispered.

She shook her head slightly. "I just don't see how."

"Tommy Volker isn't God, Lisbon," he said. "We'll get him."

He understood her frustration all too well. Ironically, Lisbon was usually the one comforting _him_.

With a sigh, she curled further into his body. Cautiously, he wrapped his other around her, unsure of what her reaction was going to be.

They stayed that way, her cheek pressed against his heart, one of her hands resting on his hip. It was the first time in months he'd gotten to hold her, and he savored every second of it.

There was a taste of reunion in the air, the gentle sense of surrender that comes when warring lovers let down their guard.

Tentatively, he kissed her hair.

It was the wrong move, though. Her muscles tensed, and she pushed herself upright again. He understood that he had crossed a line. But, still, the evening wasn't a complete loss. He could still feel the phantom imprint of her body against his.

"I'm going home," she said, almost but not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm exhausted."

He stood when she did, but stopped her before she left the office.

"Teresa," he said, crouching just a touch so he could peer properly into her face. "You know I'm always here for you, right?"

She didn't answer, visibly considering what her response should be.

"Whatever was between us, whatever's _still_ between us," he continued, "if you ever need a shoulder to lean on, I've got two." He widened his eyes, hoping to show her how sincere he was.

_I want you back_ was the message he was trying to project. _Please let me in._

For just a second, she wavered, and he knew she was thinking about rising up on her toes and kissing him. In the end, however, she just offered him a tired almost-smile before turning and leaving.

He spent the night on her couch, wishing bitterly that things were different.

She found him there the next morning. When he woke, she was sitting at her desk, diligently working. She looked like she hadn't slept. There was an obscenely large travel mug full of coffee next to her.

"Good morning," he said, voice still scratchy.

"Good morning yourself," she replied, offering him a very small smile. But it was a real one.

Well, that was something. He thought he could count on one hand the number of times she'd looked remotely happy in his presence in the past months.

He kept fairly close to her all during the day, and she didn't seem unhappy about it. He sincerely hoped this meant that she was considering giving him another chance.

Abruptly, he realized he hadn't even asked for one.

Nor had he truly apologized for what he had done.

If they made awards for being an idiot, he would win all of them this year.

He perched on the edge of her desk around five that afternoon. "Are you interested in getting dinner?" he asked, mentally crossing his fingers. "I know the only thing you've consumed today has been coffee."

She took a deep breath, and he tried to hide his smile. "Sure," she said. "I'm starving."

They went somewhere simple, somewhere comfortable. They'd eaten there several times already, and he knew the familiar atmosphere would relax her.

Throughout the meal, the conversation stayed light, easy.

Several times, he thought about commenting that he had missed this, but decided against it. He didn't need to push his luck.

He took her arm as they were leaving. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. "Let's go for a walk," he suggested, and though she looked mildly suspicious, she nodded her consent.

They strolled in silence for a few blocks, making their way to a small park.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd struggled so much with words. "What can I do," he eventually asked, "to convince you of how sorry I am?" To a casual observer, the question would seem to be out of nowhere, but he knew very well what Lisbon was thinking of.

Beside him, she stared straight ahead. "You could try to actually apologize," she said.

He stopped walking, tugging gently on her arm until she'd moved to face him. "Teresa," he began. "I can't begin to tell you how much I regret what happened. I'm sorrier than I can express for hurting you so much." He held her eyes. "I knew when we got involved that all I was going to bring you was pain, and I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough to stay away from you."

"You're sorry for hurting me," she repeated, "but you're not sorry for what you did."

There was no point in contradicting her, so he didn't.

She sighed. "Thank you for not lying about that, at least." She blinked several times. "And you didn't just bring me pain," she said, voice soft. "I was happy, at least most of the time."

"Me, too," he whispered. "You have no idea how happy you made me. You were…home, I guess."

She swiped angrily at an unexpected tear.

He took a half-step forward, reaching for her hands. "I know I don't deserve it, but do you think we could give this another shot?"

Another tear rolled down her face. "I don't know," she breathed. "I don't know if I can trust you. You _left_ me," she reminded him.

"I did," he admitted, "but not because I didn't want to be with you. I left because I had to."

Her lips pressed together. "So what's to stop you from doing it again? Jane, I can't cope with losing you again." Even in the dark, he could see the bruised look in her eyes.

"I won't leave," he murmured. "I don't think I can make it without you anymore. Really," he said, almost chucking, even though there was nothing amusing about the conversation. "You wouldn't believe how much of a mess I was."

Her lips quirked for just a moment. "I think I could make a pretty good guess."

Throwing caution to the winds, he stepped forward and took her into his arms. She went willingly, hand sliding under his jacket.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered again.

"What about Lorelei?" she wondered, and he felt her grip a handful of his shirt.

"Just a hoop I had to jump through," he murmured. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I was thinking of you the whole time?"

"_No_," she said instantly. "Because you might have enjoyed it then."

He laughed softly. "Rest assured, I did _not_ enjoy myself." And he hadn't, not really.

"Did you sleep with her after she escaped from prison?" she asked, and he heard the trepidation.

"No," he promised, lips ghosting over her temple. "Did you sleep with Kirkland?" The thought had been haunting him.

"I didn't," she said, "though it'd serve you right if I had."

He closed his eyes in relief. "Can we go home?" he asked, wondering if she would let him stay with her.

She nodded against his chest, and he let out a silent sigh.

Her apartment was almost exactly as it had been when they'd been together the first time. It was like he'd never left, but he knew that was just wishful thinking.

Everything had changed.

He wondered if it would be possible for them to resume their relationship so abruptly. Lisbon hadn't forgiven him, he knew that, and they still had a very long way to go.

But he also knew that she _wanted_ to forgive him, wanted everything to be alright again.

And he would rather deal with the pain knowing he could always pull her into his arms and beg for forgiveness, that he had the right to do so.

They stood in her living room, both unsure of what to do. It was a recurring theme in their relationship.

"Screw it," she suddenly whispered, reaching up to take his face in her hands.

Her lips met his with passion and desperation. He knew exactly what she was feeling. What they felt for each other mixed with the idea that they could have lost this forever…it was powerful, potent.

She was the one that pulled back, turning her face into his neck.

"Let's go to bed," he whispered into her hair. "Just to sleep," he added.

Truly, even though he would have relished the chance to make love to her, he knew they weren't ready for that.

But he would certainly settle for her in his arms all night.

She nodded, and he led the way up the stairs, their fingers laced.

When she crawled into bed, head settling on his chest, he felt truly at peace for the first time in almost nine months. Their interlude in Vegas had been fraught with panic, uncertainty. There were so many variables at play that all he had managed to feel was finally, finally warm. And guilty.

They would make it. Whatever else he had to do, had to sacrifice, he wasn't going to give her up again.

_I love you_, he wanted to say. _I love you so very much_.

But just like they weren't ready to make love yet, they weren't ready to say the words either.

Even if he already had.

She was going to let it go, just like she always did, and he was revisited by the idea that there were so many reasons why he didn't deserve her.

He kissed her forehead, and she burrowed closer. Her deep breathing told him she was already close to sleep.

He closed his eyes, tightening his hold on her, and took another moment to be grateful for what he had been given.

It would become the _second_ first night of their relationship. Only this time, Jane would make sure it was their _official_ relationship.

He knew life didn't often hand out second chances of this magnitude, and he wasn't such a fool to think that screwing up this time wouldn't have permanent consequences.

In a second of whimsy, he came to realize that he finally had everything he'd been wishing for since he walked out of CBI all those months ago.

Lisbon was curled up in his arms, her warm body relaxing him. He was closing in on Red John after a decade of searching.

Sleepily, Lisbon pushed herself up to kiss him briefly again, and he smiled.

Whoever said to be careful what you wished for was an idiot, he thought.

Why would he be careful? After all, he just might get it.

**AN: **I know this wasn't really a happy-ever-after sort of thing; it was more of a starting point for them again. And can I just say that I really, really hope that scene with them in her office during the Volker case actually happens?

This might have wandered away from the original tone of the first three chapters, but I just wanted them together! So sue me!


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